


the beauty of a secret.

by katarama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Marking, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5215157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they fell into the slick slide of wet mouths and wetter dicks was an accident.  The second time was, too.  </p>
<p>And, well, three times is a pattern.  So they decide it’s time for some rules, words pressed into skin while Jackson’s pressed against the wall of the cramped bathroom stall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the beauty of a secret.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Stackson Week! I listen to too much Halsey, and this fic resulted from listening to Strange Love way too many times. Enjoy!

Stiles’ hearing is still fuzzy from the force of his orgasm when he lifts his heavy eyelids and looks down.  Jackson is kneeling with one hand in his jeans and the other wiping fruitlessly at the smears of come Stiles dragged along his face.  Stiles’ body tingles with the memory of fucking Jackson’s mouth, of Jackson’s puffy lips around his dick, of the whimper of  _loss_  that spilled from Jackson’s raw throat when Stiles pulled out and jerked himself off, shooting come across Jackson’s cheekbones.   

Jackson gives up trying to clean himself up when he realizes that there’s too much, that Stiles had made as much of a mess of his pretty face as he could.  Stiles likes leaving Jackson this way, likes knowing the come Jackson wants down his throat is streaked across his face, slicking up his lips.  Stiles likes knowing that Jackson shows up with his hair flat and free of product just so Stiles will twine Jackson’s hair around his fingers and  _tug_.

Even in his afterglow, Stiles feels the warmth and satisfaction of watching Jackson pulling helplessly at his dick, desperate and noisy and worked up, ruining the knees of his expensive jeans on the grimy floor of the club bathroom just from sucking Stiles’ dick.  

Stiles pulls his own jeans back up while he watches.  Jackson never lets Stiles get him off, but he lets Stiles see, like he knows how much Stiles itches to feel the give of Jackson’s body when it shudders and goes limp, melting into the floor like it’s the expensive-ass mattress Jackson probably sleeps on every night.  

Stiles wouldn’t know - he’s never seen it before.

All he gets is this, Jackson’s face striped with drying come, Jackson’s hair mussed up and boxer briefs sticky.  Jackson’s mouth will be swollen and red when he returns to the flashing lights and blaring music of the club to meet Danny, and only Stiles will know who made him that way.

It’s not a bedroom, no romantic wining and dining.  That’s not what they are.  It’s teeth and nails, both of them clinging to the moments of  _need_  they drag out of each other.

Stiles is surprised by how satisfying it is.

* * *

 

The first time they fell into the slick slide of wet mouths and wetter dicks was an accident.  The second time was, too.

And, well, three times is a pattern.  So they decide it’s time for some rules, words pressed into skin while Jackson’s pressed against the wall of the cramped bathroom stall.

Stiles doesn’t need rules.  He’s fine with what they have, with how easy it is, how easy they both are.  Jackson needs rules about the terms of their hook-ups as much as he does about when he can and can’t come.  

Jackson wants to keep things in the club and not tell anyone.  “We’re fucking, not dating,” he sneers, and Stiles snorts.  

“I’m pretty sure after Lydia, no one wants to date your sorry ass, anyway,” Stiles says.  He agrees to the terms, though, because, as Jackson’s laid them out, he doesn’t have a problem with them.  As much fun as it would be watching the whole school flip out about Jackson and Stiles, there’s only one person Stiles really needs to know, and Jackson’s left him a loophole.  

Scott has always given Stiles his space when it comes to his sex life and dating life (or lack thereof), but now that Scott’s doing his smiling and hand holding thing with Lydia, he’s been spending extra time fretting and checking in to make sure Stiles is okay.  

(Stiles was not okay at first.  It’s why he and Jackson had sex the first time.  Scott doesn’t need to know that.)

Stiles doesn’t doubt that Scott will find out about Jackson, sooner or later.  Hopefully sooner.  Stiles likes technicalities, and if Scott guesses, Stiles isn’t breaking any rules against telling him.  So Stiles isn’t careful around him.  He leaves the box of condoms he spent a half an hour deciding on in the aisle at CVS out in the open on his desk.  He heads home with Scott on club nights smelling of sweat and come and Jackson’s equally expensive and strong cologne.  There’s no way Scott doesn’t know.

He waits a while before acknowledging it, though.

The night before Scott and Stiles talk, Stiles sucks marks into Jackson’s neck, head foggy with the noises that spill out of Jackson when Stiles worries the thin skin with his teeth.  Stiles loves the way he can see the imprint of his mouth when he pulls away, loves wiping his spit from Jackson’s neck and seeing the way Jackson tenses when Stiles’ fingers hover over the skin blooming bright red.  Stiles fucks him hard, that night, leaves matching bruises on Jackson’s hips, swallowing down every gasp and moan he drags out of Jackson.  

Something breaks that night, makes Jackson melt into Stiles’ body like it’s somewhere safe, makes Stiles cling, because no matter how close he is to Jackson, no matter how deep he fucks inside of him, it doesn’t feel like close enough.

For all his obsession with secrecy, Jackson doesn’t cover those marks with makeup.  He doesn’t even wear one of his douchey scarves; though it would look weird in late spring in California, it hasn’t stopped Isaac or Jackson before.  Instead, Jackson wears his hickeys out in the open, and while everyone else spreads rumors about him and Lydia getting back together to finish out senior year, Stiles  _knows_.  He can’t stop looking, can’t help the burn of pride in his gut, because  _he_  did that to Jackson, and Jackson isn’t hiding it.

“Holy shit,” Scott says, glancing back and forth between the two of them when he sees Jackson at lunch.  “You left a lot of hickeys.”  Stiles waits for the judgment to hit hard, for Scott to tell Stiles to be more careful, but it never comes; Stiles is eternally grateful, probably for the first time ever, for the fact that Allison and Scott were apparently much kinkier than just leaving a few hickeys.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.  “I didn’t realize I left some of them so dark.  The club bathroom isn’t well-lit, so it’s kinda hard to see.”

“Maybe you should have a change of location,” Scott suggests.  Not the ‘maybe you and Jackson should stop this, because Jackson is a douchebag and you know it’ that Stiles was expecting there, either.

“Maybe.”  Stiles doesn’t think it’s likely to happen.  Scott waits for more, but Stiles steals one of Scott’s fries, and the conversation moves along.

The idea’s in Stiles’ head now, though, just as firmly entrenched as the scattered bruises on Jackson’s skin.

* * *

 

Stiles talks through ways to bring it up in his head.  Rounds his way through “I’m tired of paying the cover fee for this shithole” and “if you ruin any more of your waste-of-money jeans your parents are gonna start asking questions” and curves the corner to “someone could see us here, you know, it’s only a matter of time”.  All of them are true, though he’s pretty sure that none of them but the last one are actually reasons that would convince Jackson to settle for a change of location.

In the end, though, Stiles doesn’t have to open his mouth.  

Stiles and Jackson have a fight in Harris’ class, snipe at each other until Harris is issuing Stiles a detention.  Jackson  _knew_  Stiles was supposed to hang out with Scott that night to finish college housing stuff,  _knew_  that Stiles wanted to get home ASAP, and the smugness on his face when Harris asks Stiles to stay after school makes Stiles want to punch the smirk right off him.  As soon as he can, Stiles gets a pass and goes for the bathroom, texting Scott angrily from the ground next to the sinks, where he’s plotting his revenge.

He’s caught off guard when the door of the bathroom pushes open, and he scrambles to his feet to see the door close behind Jackson.

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, his heart beating quick in his chest when he wasn’t even doing anything wrong.  Jackson comes closer, seemingly unfazed by Stiles’ anger.

Stiles doesn’t know how it happens, though that’s pretty much par for the course with him and Jackson.  One second they’re sniping at each other, trying to one-up each other with who can sink lower, who can hit hardest below the belt.  But then it’s no longer just words touching below the belt, Jackson’s thigh against Stiles’ dick, and then Stiles is pushing Jackson back against the sinks, pinning him there with his hips.

Jackson tugs Stiles in for a kiss, wraps one hand in Stiles’ hair and pulls him close, until every part of Stiles is pressing in one, long gangly line against Jackson.  His breath hitches when Jackson pulls his hips away, when Stiles hears the sharp click drag of Jackson’s zipper.  They’re doing this, having sex in the bathroom at school when they should both be in class, where anyone could walk in and see them.

It gives Stiles a rush, headier than fucking in the club bathroom, because here it  _matters_  if they get caught.  It doesn’t deter Stiles, but makes him bold, makes him fall to his knees and tug Jackson’s pants down.  Jackson isn’t even wearing underwear, and Stiles wonders if he intended this, if he picked a fight knowing it’d rile Stiles up.  Knowing it would lead here.  Stiles looks up at Jackson, sees his mouth go slack, and Stiles bites the skin where Jackson’s hips meet his thighs.  Jackson’s hips thrust forward, and Stiles pins them back against the counter with one hand, using the other to touch Jackson’s dick.

“I’m gonna suck you off,” Stiles says, and when Jackson says, “ _please_ ”, Stiles takes as much of Jackson as he can into his mouth, tasting him on his tongue for the first time.  

Stiles makes Jackson loud, makes him forget where they are.  He doesn’t take his time, because they don’t have time to spare before the bell rings and the bathroom fills with people; his movements are sloppy and fast, more worried about sucking Jackson hard, playing with the head of his cock and making his breath go ragged, than he is with technique.  When Jackson fucks into Stiles’ throat and comes, it catches Stiles by surprise, and he gags, coughing and spluttering indignantly, his face bright red.

Jackson zips himself back up and ruffles Stiles’ hair, looking inordinately pleased with himself.  He walks out of the bathroom and back to class, leaving Stiles hard and on his knees.  It isn’t until Stiles sees himself in the mirror that he realizes why Jackson was so cocky; Stiles’ hair is a mess, his lips swollen beyond even their normal biting and chewing on pens puffy.  Stiles looks like he just got fucked, and no matter how much he fiddles with his hair and washes his face, when he talks himself into going back to class, everyone whispers.

Stiles feels like Jackson’s fucked him over for the second time today, and Stiles’ gut is burning with how mad he is.

It isn’t until later, when Stiles is sitting in detention, running things back through his head, that he realizes that their bathroom adventure wasn’t entirely a loss.  The fact that Jackson broke his ‘only at the club’ rule is obvious, but he broke a far, far more important rule than that.

Jackson let Stiles make him come.  Had begged for it.

“No more club sex,” Stiles texts Jackson, then fires off another one almost immediately after.  “no more sex at school.”

“fine,” Jackson replies.  Stiles wonders if that’s the end, if Jackson’s going to call it quits now that the safe options are out.  Stiles puts his phone away and ignores it until detention is finally over.

When he checks his phone, there’s a short message.

“my place at 8”

* * *

 

“Twice in one day,” Stiles says as Jackson peels Stiles’ plaid shirt off.  “A boy might get the idea you’re starting to like me.”

“Shut up,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes, but by now, Stiles knows Jackson better than that.

“Make me,” Stiles says, and Jackson kisses him.

(Jackson’s totally starting to like him.)

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](sleepy-skittles.tumblr.com).


End file.
